


Saltwater Secrets

by earlgay_milktea



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - High School, Comedy, Demon BadBoyHalo (Video Blogging RPF), Fish Puns, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mermaid GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Pining, Romance, Slightly Unhinged GeorgeNotFound, Swimmer Dream (Video Blogging RPF), everyone else is human, romcom but mostly com, theme song is Dolphin by OH MY GIRL, this fic will make you laugh i swear on my honour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgay_milktea/pseuds/earlgay_milktea
Summary: George may be a mermaid, but his feelings for Dream are drowning him.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 156
Kudos: 336





	1. Swim Meet

**Author's Note:**

> this is a work based on the minecraft personas of the content creators. if they, at any point, express their discomfort at being shipped together, this fic will be taken down. 
> 
> also, the school in this fic is based off an australian school because i don't know how american/british schools work.

The swim meet has barely begun, and Dream is already decimating the competition.

“You’d think he’s part-mermaid or something,” Sapnap muses, watching Dream bulldoze his way through the 50-metre butterfly.

“You’d think,” agrees George. The other competitors are eating Dream’s foam, literally.

“But he’s not,” continues Sapnap, sounding frustrated but long-sufferingly affectionate; familiar emotions when it comes to Dream. “He’s just crazy talented! Leave some glory for the rest of us, will you?”

“It’s not like he’s good at everything, you know,” says George, twiddling with the string of his hoodie. He’s actually sweltering, but if he takes it off, he’ll have to find another way to explain the redness of his face, which. No.

Sapnap waves a dismissive hand at George. “I know he’s not good at everything – I’m just having a good ol’ bitching session here.”

“Nothing unusual, then.”

“I’m going to shove you into the pool.”

George considers the distance between himself and the pool. He and Sapnap are sitting at the back of the stands. There are at least twenty rows separating them from the glass barrier at the edge, and even then, five more metres before the tiled floor gives way to water. Even if Sapnap were to punt George with all his might, he’d fail. And crack George’s head. A merciful escape from this mortal coil.

Sapnap was only human, after all. Most people were. Humans weren’t exactly known for their physical strength.

 _But there were always exceptions_ , George thinks to himself, casting a surreptitious glance at Dream, whose arm muscles had muscles.

George turns back to Sapnap. “You could certainly try.”

“Maybe I will,” grumbles Sapnap, but there’s no real threat to it.

They settle in to watch Dream curb-stomp the other schools. It would be comical if it weren’t for the second-hand embarrassment. The difference in skill level is so vast, watching Dream VS. Everyone Else is like watching a couple of raisins try and outrun a dolphin. George would know. He’s seen it happen personally.

Not for the first time, he considers the possibility that Dream’s whole family has been lying to him for his whole life, and that he actually _is_ a mermaid.

But then he remembers that Dream won’t eat raw fish, even sashimi, and his thoughts putter out like a candle in a gale. Dream is a human, and no amount of daydreaming is going to change that. George knows this. He _knows,_ and yet he still searches Dream’s neck for the faint lines of flattened gills, he still wonders what colour Dream’s tail could be, he still entertains fantasies of taking Dream to visit his shoal. The _proper_ way. Not by the underwater tunnel – that’s for peasants – but by swimming. It’s a scenario that’s been marinating in the back of his head. Something usually bolt-locked, never seeing the light of day, until he acknowledges it, usually in quiet moments like these, with a tired sort of clarity. Then he locks it up once more.

George is above certain things. Having feelings – romantic feelings, fuzzy feelings, worryingly possessive feelings that have nothing to do with the _very platonic_ relationship that he and Dream are currently in – is one of those things.

There’s also the issue of George not being human. He might’ve been attending school like one for the past year, and he might have more human friends than non-human at this point, but he’s not one of them. And he’s fine with that – he’s not a wannabe-drylander, he’s truly at peace with his heritage. He visits his shoal every second weekend and most school holidays, he’s partaken in the coming-of-age ceremony, he’d done his bows and claps and spear-twirls and whatnot. He’s an officially-recognised part of the community. He hasn’t even got a land passport – the one he has is from the North Atlantic Ocean. Technically, he’s an international student. Inter-sea student? Whatever.

The point is this: besides the fact that they’re Just Friends, having feelings for Dream, a human, is embarrassing. Why can't George find a nice merboy to crush on? Why does it _have_ to be Dream? He hasn’t told his mother, but if he does, he can imagine her response, her flat gaze and even flatter response of: _“Why?”_

 _That’s a good question_ , George thought, gazing down at the pool, from where Dream was clambering out of. _Why?_

And then Dream turns around, searches the stands, sees George right away, and starts waving with the stupidest grin on his face. He’s showing off his blue ribbon. It flashes like a beacon in his hand, an absolutely eyesore shade of ultramarine, but George doesn’t look at it. All he sees is Dream’s face, the happy shape of his mouth, his vigorous waving. He’s all George can see.

He’s also bringing attention to Sapnap and George in the stands.

Sapnap face-palms. “He _always_ does this,” he complains, muffled against his palm. “ _Always._ George. Hey, George. We’re not going to his swim meet next time, okay?”

George knows that Sapnap is joking. He knows that he should be nodding along, should be agreeing with some classic insult-hurling banter. But instead he finds himself, as he has been finding himself as of late, wholly preoccupied by Dream. The slant of that smile, the tuft of hair sticking out of his cap, the triumphant glimmer in his eye. Dream just being himself, utterly and unapologetically.

 _That’s why,_ thinks George. And then, _I hate my life._

He doesn’t reply to Sapnap. He just gives Dream an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and watches his grin go wider, until he’s being ushered away to make room for the next set of racers.

“How many races does he have left?” asks Sapnap.

George flips through the program booklet. “Uh… there’s two. The hundred-metre relay and the sibling races.”

“Drista’s gonna get carried so hard, it’ll be impossible to lose,” says Sapnap with pride and pity in equal measure. Then he sighs, loudly and dramatically. “Must be nice to be good at something.”

“Dude,” says George incredulously. “You’re ranked first in the grade for computer science.”

“Yeah, and Dream’s _right_ behind me.”

“Who’s behind you?”

George and Sapnap jump. They whirl around in perfect unison, and there he is: the man of the hour, the dolphin in a sea of raisins, the boy of George’s dreams (ha). He’s grinning something fierce, that post-victory glow rising off of him like steam. His cap and goggles have been taken off. His hair looks like a bird’s nest after a storm, there are faint red circles around his eyes, and he stinks of chlorine and teenage boy musk.

George inhales on reflex. He is then overcome with the violent urge to throw himself down the stands.

“It’s okay, guys, I get it,” says Dream, insufferably smug. He jumps over the back of seats and somehow lands perfectly in the empty space between George and Sapnap. George hates him so much (no he doesn’t). Dream leans back and folds both hands behind his head. “You’re speechless. The inadequacy of the English language is catching up to you. No words are good enough to describe the sheer—”

“I don’t know this guy,” says Sapnap loudly, covering his ears. “Someone get this stranger away from me. He keeps talking to me and I don’t like it.”

“Where’s my congratulations?” wheedles Dream. “Hey. Sapnap. Sappitus Nappitus. Your best friend broke two records today. _Two_ whole records.”

As Dream keeps badgering Sapnap, George preoccupies himself with staring. Not at Dream. Just staring in general. Obviously. He casts his eyes to the ceiling, then to the expanse of Dream’s back muscles, then to the gum-speckled floor, then to the smattering of freckles on Dream’s shoulders, then to his cap and goggles, then to the hand that’s holding them. It’s a hand. Yep. Just a hand. Nothing special to see here. George refuses to let his gaze go any lower because he still has _self-control_ , dammit.

“—rge? George?”

A hand waves in front of his face. He blinks dazedly, forcibly pulled out from his own head. Dream is looking right at him, a fond, exasperated slant to his smile, and George couldn’t tear his eyes away if he wanted to.

“Sorry, what?” he says instead.

Dream tilts his head. “What’d you think?”

“What did I think of what?”

“He’s fishing for compliments!” Sapnap interrupts, slapping a hand over Dream’s mouth. “Don’t fall for it!”

 _I have never fallen for anything, anywhere, at any time in my life,_ George wants to say, but that would be lying, so he just swallows those words. Lies taste salty. Like tears. Or seawater. Or maybe George is just hallucinating. He flaps the collar of his hoodie, trying to get some circulation, because the room is getting awfully warm.

“You’re—” he begins, then pauses. He tries again: “You win all the time. You don’t need us to tell you you’re good. But for what it’s worth: you were great out there.” He looks up, meeting Dream’s gaze with as casual of a smile as he can muster. Were his words too sincere? Did a little _too_ much affection bleed into his tone? Is it written all over his face, just how much he wants to compliment Dream? Because he does. If social propriety weren’t stopping him, he would extol Dream’s virtues, at great length, to whoever would listen.

Maybe a fraction of his heart bled into his words. Maybe it reached Dream just a little, not enough to make him Realise, but enough to make his eyes go all sparkly and warm.

 _“Aww,”_ he says, and leans forward for a hug.

What else can George do but hug back?

“Don’t get a big head,” he says, steadying his voice into something Platonically Loving. It’s hard, especially when he can feel Dream’s warmth through the layers of his hoodie. His chin is hooked over Dream’s bare shoulder. The skin there is soft and cold and still wet from the pool. George is pretty sure he’s reached boiling point.

“Your ego is inflated enough as it is,” he finishes lamely.

Dream just laughs and pulls back. “I know, I know. I might be the best right now, but I’m just a big fish in a small pond – once I go to uni, there’ll be tons of people better than me.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re big in any way,” Sapnap interjects.

“Oh yeah? Do you want proof? I’ll whip it out right now, I actually – George, are you okay?”

George, who is keeling over with the force of restraining his laughter, is not okay.

_Big fish? Dream?!_

If anyone is a fish here, it's George! Literally!

And also, Dream had the audacity to imply that he was the _best_. If George were a meaner person, he'd simply push Dream back into the pool and hold his head under until he admitted who was _really_ the best. Dream may excel when swimming against humans, but he couldn’t hold a candle to a mer.

“George…?” Dream says again, concerned. “Are you alright?”

_Yes. I’ve never been better. Say, Dream, do you want to race? Not in the pool, obviously, because chlorine dulls my scales, but in the open ocean?_

_It’s okay if you lose, because I’ll be there to rescue you._

George takes a deep, calming breath. He opens his mouth.

“I’m alright,” he says. “It’s nothing.”

* * *

It wasn’t supposed to be a secret.

George thought everybody knew. It was obvious if you were looking for it: George had remedial lessons in every free period, he wasn’t allowed to handle the Bunsen burners, and he was allowed to opt out of PE if he wanted to. Which he did. Every day. He’d only had his legs for over a year, and had yet to master them, so land sports were out of the question. The school actively encouraged him to participate in swimming and water polo and the such, but George wasn’t interested. He didn’t come to land to do _more_ swimming. He expected some people to give him flak for that – what’s the use of you, a mer, attending a land-school if you weren’t going to smash the competition in all water-related sports? But no one batted an eye. His new friends, Dream and Sapnap, didn’t even look up from math homework when he told them the news.

“I don’t think I’ll join the water polo team,” he announced one Wednesday afternoon, when they were all in the library. 

“Cool,” grunted Sapnap.

“Whatever floats your boat, dude,” said Dream.

George gaped. He felt like he’d looked both ways before crossing the road, only to be hit by a frisbee. 

“Guys,” he said slowly. “I won’t be joining the swimming team either. Or the diving team. I won’t even be _touching_ the pool.”

“Do you have a chlorine allergy or something?” asked Sapnap, not even looking up from his textbook.

“No, I don’t,” said George, extremely confused. “It’s just – I prefer saltwater.” _Obviously._

Sapnap made a noncommittal noise. “Cool,” he said again.

“You don’t need to, like, justify your sport choices to us,” said Dream, rubbing out a line of equation. “Just because I’m a swimming nut and Sapnap is a couch potato—”

“Who’re you calling a couch potato?"

“—the point is, we’re not gonna judge you for your life decisions.” Dream looked up, meeting George’s gaze from across the table. A corner of his mouth crooked up in a smile. “But if you joined the swim team, we could’ve hung out more.”

George smiled back. It was hard not to; Dream’s cheerfulness was infectious.

“Don’t do it, George,” interrupts Sapnap. “All that water gets into your head. It’s why Dream’s the way he is.”

“Hey!”

They devolved into friendly bickering, and when the librarian came over to shut them up, the confusion had all but disappeared from George’s mind.

So, Dream and Sapnap didn’t know. That was fine. George would just – tell them tomorrow. Yeah.

Tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 26/2/21 UPDATE: WE NOW HAVE FANART   
> https://phibii.tumblr.com/post/644136564527693825/read-totaleclipsemc-fic-saltwater-secrets
> 
> GO GIVE PHIA SOME LOVE!!! HER ART IS SO GOOD!!!!


	2. Bowling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are George’s feelings as truly unrequited as they seem?

“His name’s not actually ‘Bad’, is it?”

“Of course not,” says Sapnap. “It’s short for BadBoyHalo.”

George stares. _“What?”_

“It was a nickname for a group chat, but it stuck.”

“How—”

“You’ll see why,” says Sapnap, and leaves it at that.

It’s a Friday evening, and the Dream Team are going bowling. Right now, it’s just George and Sapnap making their way to the venue, where Dream and Bad — seriously, why Bad? Does he have a twin named Good? — would meet them. Supposedly, they’ve all been friends for a long time, long enough to form group chats and inside jokes, but drifted apart when Bad went to a different school ( _a selective school_ , Sapnap stressed). As far as George knows, they haven’t met up with Bad properly for a while. He’s slightly offended they’ve never told him about Bad until now. He’s been friends with Dream and Sapnap since Term 2, which started in the tail-end of April. It’s now _September._

“So, that group chat,” says George as casually as he can. He eyes Sapnap, who strolls along with him on the pavement. “Who else is in it?”

“Oh, it’s just me, Dream, Bad, and—” George can see the exact moment that it _clicks_ for Sapnap. He pauses. His eyes go round and horrified. He rounds on George, spluttering a steady stream of _I’m-so-sorry-I-just-forgot_ and George lets it go on, because he’s nothing if not petty.

“It’s alright,” he says at last, giving Sapnap a reprieve from apologising. “Just add me later.”

“Dude, I really didn’t mean to forget,” says Sapnap, still panicked. “It totally slipped my mind! I even talked to Dream about adding you, and he was so excited for it — that’s nothing new, he’s always excited about everything you-related — and it’s not like we’re an _exclusive_ friendship squad because that’s stupid—”

“Waitwaitwait,” interrupts George, his heart in his throat. “What did you just say?”

“Exclusive friendship squads are stupid?”

“No, the thing about Dream,” says George frantically. “What did you say about him — being excited? About me?”

They’ve stopped walking. Now it’s just George and Sapnap underneath a rapidly-darkening sky as the breeze ruffles their hair, as George tries to keep his chest from exploding. He hopes he doesn’t look as desperate as he feels. He hopes it comes across as casual curiosity, but judging from the look of dawning comprehension on Sapnap’s face, he hasn’t disguised himself well enough.

“Holy shit,” says Sapnap. He lifts a hand to his mouth. “Holy _shit._ ”

“Oh, God,” mutters George, wishing he had his hoodie to hide beneath. Unfortunately, he’s just wearing a t-shirt and shorts, and you couldn’t hide your face in either of those things. Unless you wanted to flash the whole world.

“You like Dream,” says Sapnap, hushed, like they’re children on a playground exchanging secrets. “Like, you _like-like_ Dream.”

“We’re not guppies, Sapnap,” retorts George. His face probably looks like it's on fire.

Sapnap frowns. “Guppies?”

George realises that no one other than a mer would know what ‘guppy’ means in this context, so he drops it. 

“You’d better keep this to yourself,” he warns. His mind spins wildly, trying to formulate an appropriate threat, before finally settling on: “Or else I’ll drown you.”

Those aren’t empty words. If Sapnap even _breathes_ a word to Dream that hints at George’s less-than-platonic feelings for him, George will find the nearest water source, drag Sapnap there, and ‘accidentally’ push him off the edge. It’ll be good swimming practice. 

_Don’t test me, Sapnap,_ George thinks, trying to convey with his eyes just how much he means it. _Don’t fucking test me._

“Jesus, dude,” says Sapnap, looking alarmed. “Calm down. I’m not gonna tell Dream.”

“You promise?”

“Of course! Actually, this all works out, since—”

Sapnap makes a strangled noise and slaps a hand over his own mouth. There is a brief pause. George tries to make eye contact with Sapnap, questioning, but the other boy closes his eyes. Takes an audible breath. His shoulders are tense, almost hunched over his ears, and he forces them to relax. When he lowers his hand, he’s calmed down.

George wishes the same could be said for himself.

“Sapnap,” he says, low with warning. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Sapnap begins power-walking. “No. Nothing.”

George easily keeps pace. “Sapnap, you haven’t answered my question yet. You haven’t told me about how or why Dream’s getting excited over m—”

“Lalalalala I can’t hear you!” yells Sapnap, walking faster.

_“Sapnap!”_

* * *

Are George’s feelings as truly unrequited as they seem?

Did he miss something? Did the signs pass him by, or was he just not looking for them?

That’s ridiculous. George has his eyes on Dream at every opportunity! If Dream wants him, even a fraction of how much he wants Dream, George is pretty sure he’d know.

George needs answers. However, no matter how much he pesters Sapnap, it’s clear that the other boy has been sworn to secrecy. Threats, blackmail, bribes — all of George’s words slide off of him like water streaming off a duck.

God, this is raising his blood pressure. George needs to calm down. Needs to take a breath or two.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhaaaale…

“George!”

George’s breath gets caught somewhere halfway, and he dissolves into a coughing fit right there and then on the pavement. Sapnap pounds at his back. He chokes even more. He’s vaguely aware of passers-by giving him a wide berth. He can feel the weight of their judgemental stares, but it doesn’t matter, they don’t matter, all that matters is—

“Dream?” he rasps out.

And, like a desert mirage, Dream comes into view.

There’s a denim jacket slung over his shoulders (he doesn’t have his arms in the holes, that edgy bastard), a t-shirt with a sport team’s emblem emblazoned on it, black jeans, and sneakers. His socks are patterned. His hair is all fluffy like it’s recently been washed, sticking up from his head in uneven tufts. He looks spectacularly dweeby.

Even so, George’s breath is stolen for a second time.

“George, are you okay?” asks Dream. George has heard sirens sing, but none of their songs are as enchanting as Dream saying his name. George opens his mouth to respond. What comes out is another cough.

Dream gently shoos Sapnap away, and, taking George by the forearms, guides him into standing. George didn’t even notice he’d been hunched over with his hands on his knees. To be fair, a lot of things escape his notice when Dream’s around. 

“Peachy,” croaks George, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“Do you need water or something? Are you sick?” Dream barrels on, his gaze sweeping over George like he’s assessing for hidden injuries.

“I’m fine,” says George faintly. The attention is making him light-headed. “Dream, it’s okay. I’m okay. I just — choked on thin air.”

“You choked on air,” repeats Dream flatly.

“Yeah, having lungs is hard,” says George, because he knows Dream will think he’s joking. “I don’t know how you dry-landers do it.”

As expected, Dream takes George’s statement in jest instead of the truth that it is. “Okay, you’re fine.”

“So, who’s this friend you wanted to introduce?” George asks, wrenching his eyes from Dream and stepping back.

They’re all standing on the pavement outside the bowling place’s entrance. George casts his gaze around, but all he sees a hooded figure dressed entirely in black.

His knee-jerk reaction is: oh, are we about to get mugged?

He’s proved wrong a second later when Sapnap straight-up _sprints_ to the figure, throwing his arms wide open.

“Bad!” he crows in delight.

Bad is swept into an enthusiastic hug. Sapnap looks like he could be squeezing his friend to death, but Bad doesn’t seem to be affected in the least. Instead, he’s laughing; a brighter, higher sound than George would’ve expected from someone dressed like a wannabe-edgelord.

“Missed you too, you muffinhead,” Bad says, muffled into Sapnap’s shoulder.

 _Muffinhead?_ George mouths to himself.

“It’s his thing,” Dream tells George, clearly predicting his train of thought. “He calls everyone that. He also doesn’t like to swear, so he uses ‘muffin’ instead.”

“That is… a choice.”

“Yeah,” says Dream, his voice warm. Sapnap and Bad are now performing a complicated-looking handshake that involves a great deal of shouting, and Dream is grinning helplessly in their direction. A dimple flashes in his left cheek.

There’s a history here. There’s several years’ worth of history and inside jokes and group chat history; it circles George like a shark in murky waters, but all he can see is a dorsal fin.

He tries not to feel too bitter about it. It’s a simple matter of time and setting — George moved to land a year ago, while Dream and his friends have lived on it for their whole lives. If only George had been here sooner. If only he’d met them sooner. Maybe then they’d already know the truth, and he wouldn’t be tying himself into knots over telling them. 

As George keeps spending time with Dream and Sapnap, growing closer with each day, the harder it gets to tell them. They know the important things about George. They know that he can’t stand eating fried fish, they know which TV shows are his favourite, they know which spots to prod to get him laughing — they know _him._ If they realise that George has been keeping such a big part of himself from them, will they be upset? Will they see him in a different light? Will they see it as a betrayal; that after many months of friendship, George waited this long to tell them?

He can’t deal with this right now. He’ll think about it another day. He’s going to make a new friend today, and he isn’t going to let his tide-like emotions ruin it.

“George, come meet Bad!” calls Sapnap, and George walks forward.

* * *

BadBoyHalo’s nickname becomes clear very quickly.

“My real name’s Darryl, but you can call me Bad,” he says, flipping down his hood as they walk inside. Two horns curve up from his head, dark and ridged and wickedly sharp. His hair and skin are obsidian-black. No tinges of brown, or red, or anything — just the purest shade of black that George has ever seen. An arrow-headed tail swishes around his ankles. When he grins, George can see the points of pearly-white fangs.

“You’re a demon,” says George very unnecessarily.

He isn’t sure what he feels. On one hand: BadBoyHalo is the stupidest nickname he’s ever heard for a demon. On the other hand: why didn’t Dream and Sapnap tell him they had a non-human friend?

“Yup,” says Bad, popping the ‘p’. “Got a problem with that?”

“Of course not!” George blurts. “I’ve got plenty of non-human friends!”

Bad gives him a strange look. His eyes are an inverted version of a human’s: his sclera is black, and his iris and pupil are a flat white. 

“Why would you say that?” he asks.

“Why would I say what?”

“You say you’re fine with demons ‘because you’ve got non-human friends’, but—” He makes a vague, all-encompassing gesture. “—you’re not exactly human either — _mmph!”_

Too late, George slaps a hand over Bad’s mouth. He casts a panicked gaze around, but Dream and Sapnap are getting their bowling shoes by the counter, and thankfully don’t hear anything. There’s also a bass-heavy song thumping over the speakers, dampening everyone’s voices. George’s heart, in time with the music, tries its darndest to beat out of his chest.

“Mmph!” says Bad again, and George lowers his hand.

“How could you tell?” George hisses.

Bad, once again, gives him a look like he’s out of his mind.

“How could I not?” he says. “You walk with your feet turned out, like — like you’re used to water instead of land. You move like you keep expecting resistance, and you’re surprised when you don’t.”

George gapes. Is he _that_ obvious? Is he so transparent that Bad, an almost-stranger, can tell that he’s a mer within two minutes of meeting him? His months of training, his shapeshifting lessons — were they all for naught?

Before he can say anything, Bad bursts into laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, hunched over in his mirth, clutching his stomach. “Your _face_ — gah, I’m dying, I’m dying.”

All George can muster up is: “Huh?”

“Gosh, I’m so sorry,” says Bad, wiping tears from his eyes. “I was just messing with you. You don’t actually move like that. You just smell like fish.”

George immediately sticks his nose into his collar and takes a deep sniff. Fabric, deodorant, faint notes of sweat and teenage boy musk — nothing out of the ordinary. 

“You’re lying,” he accuses.

“I’m no-ot,” Bad sing-songs.

George seizes Bad by the collar and shakes him. “You’re lying!”

“Whoa, whoa, guys,” Dream interrupts. He walks up to them, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. A pair of bowling shoes dangle from his grasp. “What’s going on?”

“We’re just getting to know each other,” says Bad cheerfully.

Dream eyes the way that George has gripped Bad’s collar. “Uh-huh.”

George immediately releases the other boy. He’s not sure what expression his face is making, but he hopes it doesn’t look too guilty. Judging from the suspicious edge to Dream’s stare, George is failing.

“Well, it’s your turn,” Dream says, and his cautious stare doesn’t leave them as George and Bad step up to get their bowling shoes. 

George has never gone bowling before, so he lets Bad do most of the talking, and preoccupies himself with looking around. The interior is dimly-lit with coloured lights. There are U-shaped sofas clustered at the head of every alley, curved around the ball-distributing machine. The screens mounted above them are playing old music videos while the corresponding song thumps out of the speakers. There’s also an arcade on the other side; a neon-lit paradise of claw machines, first-person shooters, and whack-a-moles with blaring 16-bit music. Children run screaming from one game to another. Teens slouch over plastic steering wheels, living out their Fast and Furious dreams without the fatalities and thousands of dollars’ worth of collateral damage.

It all looks like a headache. George wants to try it immediately.

But there’s a pair of bowling shoes being shoved into his hands, and Dream hooks an arm into his, guiding him to their lane where Sapnap is waiting, and George thinks: _it can wait._

* * *

“You haven’t played bowling before, right?” asks Dream.

“Nope,” says George. He tests the weight of the ball in his hands, wincing a little when the material adheres to his skin, no doubt due to the layers of grime and sweat from its previous players.

“Do you know how to play?”

“I’ve got the general idea,” says George. Dream is a warm presence at his elbow, and it’s distracting. “You’ve just gotta knock the pins over, right?”

“Yeah!” Dream gives him a nudge forward. “Go try it out. It’s not that hard.”

“Speak for yourself, Dream!” calls Sapnap, who’s lounging on the couch, his feet propped up on the ball-dispensing machine.

Dream’s face goes comically blank. “Shut up, Sapnap.”

Sapnap does not.

“George, don’t let him fool you,” he says. “Dream’s terrible at bowling. His average score is a—”

Dream strides over and captures Sapnap into a headlock. Bad laughs so hard he chokes. In the ensuing chaos, George readies the ball, mimicking the position some other players are taking — there’s another group bowling to the right of the Dream Team — and tosses. The ball bounces on the polished wood floor, once, twice, (he must’ve used too much strength, oops) and hurtles into the pins with a loud clatter.

 _STRIKE,_ the screens proclaim, followed by a janky animation of bowling pins dancing.

George, too, feels like dancing.

He’s amazing. He’s the stuff of legends. He’s a Kaiju risen from the ocean, monstrous and powerful and a blatant metaphor for global warming, and the bowling pins are the hapless cities he’s left crushed in his wake.

George whirls around, grinning like an absolute idiot. “Did you see that?!”

His friends are all in varying states of shock. Sapnap’s mouth hangs ajar. Bad’s eyes are wide and impressed. And Dream is simply smiling — not the winsome one he wears in public and around strangers, not the helpless grin of amusement he gets around friends. This one is smaller. Warmer. His gaze is tempered with fondness, something akin to pride, like he didn’t expect anything less from George.

George knows that look. He recognises it. He lives with it, _has_ been living with it ever since the first day of Term 2 when a sandy-haired boy beckoned him over in class and asked: “do you wanna sit with me?”

George feels his world tilt. He can’t believe it. Is he dreaming? He can’t be — this is too absurd to be a dream.

“Are you _sure_ you’ve never played bowling before?” Sapnap asks, snapping George out of his reverie.

“Very sure,” says George, carefully avoiding looking in Dream’s direction. If he looks, he’s not sure he won’t be able to hide the same softness in his own eyes.

It’s too soon, okay? George needs time to gather his thoughts. He needs time to mull over it. He’ll finish processing in, like, five business days.

 _No,_ he isn’t running away. Shut up.

“Who’s next?” Bad asks.

“My turn now,” says Dream, standing up.

He tosses aside his denim jacket. He makes a show of stretching and cracking his knuckles, which is all very impressive, except Sapnap snickers the whole way through. Bad doesn’t laugh, but his mouth is wobbling, holding in laughter.

George walks back onto the couch, sinks into it. Dream can’t be _that_ bad, right? He’s a good swimmer; all that muscle mass and coordination must amount to _something,_ right?

Dream winds up.

He tosses.

The ball goes rolling down the alley, and knocks over a stunning total of one pin.

Sapnap loses it; he laughs so hard he almost falls out of his seat, and Bad isn’t too far behind. It’s only George who has the decency to suppress his amusement. When Dream goes again, his ball veers right into the dividers, and rolls down the lane without touching a single pin. Sapnap _wheezes._

“Guys, it’s not that funny,” says Dream, but he’s also got laughter in his voice. Any other person might’ve gotten offended, but not Dream. Dream doesn’t adhere to the hyper-masculine expectations of this society! And that’s awesome!

“It’s kinda funny,” says Bad, giggling.

“Ugh, whatever.” Dream sticks his nose in the air, faux-snobbish. “Land sports are overrated anyway.”

“We get it, you dolphin,” says Sapnap, finally calming down from his laughing fit. “You’re a mermaid in disguise.”

George freezes.

“You can’t just call me a dolphin _and_ a mermaid,” says Dream. He drops into the seat beside Sapnap. “You’ve gotta keep to a shtick. Coordinate your metaphors.”

Sapnap shrugs. “You’d outswim either one, anyway.”

George can’t help the reflexive anger in his voice when he snaps: “No, you wouldn’t.”

Dream and Sapnap glance over, surprised. Bad has a look of grudging understanding when he looks at George, though it’s undercut with confusion.

 _You haven’t told them?_ his gaze says.

George gives him a small, barely-perceptible shake of the head. Bad raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry ‘bout that, guys,” says George. He doesn’t look either Dream or Sapnap in the eye. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“… it’s alright,” says Sapnap. He sounds concerned. There’s a crease in his brow and something assessing in his gaze when he looks at George, like he’s searching for something, but doesn’t know what it is.

George doesn’t say anything.

“So, whose turn is it?” says Dream, which isn’t the most graceful topic-change, but everyone latches onto it, desperate to escape the increasing tension. Sapnap jumps up, loudly proclaiming to show Dream “how it’s done”. Dream sits back and rolls his eyes. They fall easily into the rhythm of their dynamic, pushing and pulling, ribbing one another in a way that speaks of years’ worth of familiarity.

George leans back against the couch and heaves a shaky breath.

“You’ve gotta tell them someday,” Bad says quietly. When he looks over, his mouth is twisted to a side, uneasy. “It’s who you are. You won’t be able to hide it forever.”

“I know,” says George, equally as quiet. “I know.”

* * *

The game goes on for hours. Over the course of it, George finds out that Sapnap is fairly decent at the first roll, but cannot hit spares to save his life. Bad, on the other hand, veers wildly between hitting strikes and hitting nothing at all.

Dream is horrendous at bowling. George has never met anyone who lacks so much skill at a game where you toss a ball and let momentum do the rest of the work, but you learn new things every day. Dream’s highest score is a _three._ Sapnap stops laughing at him halfway through the game, but he still gets that wildly amused look in his eye when Dream executes an impressive throw and misses his mark completely.

When all’s said and done, George ends up winning by a landslide. He wants to check out the arcade, but Dream’s stomach lets out a loud grumble, and that seems to set off a chain reaction. Suddenly, everyone remembers that they haven’t ate dinner, and they all barrel out to find some food, leaving George’s arcade-related dreams out to dry. The streets outside are busy with people. The dinner crowd has gathered, occupying the doorways of restaurants, the sounds of their chatter and laughter filling the air, loud with smothering, heavy without cloying.

George’s friends bound from place to place, discussing furiously between themselves. George would join the conversation, but his social batteries have been drained for the day, and he left a piece of his heart behind at the arcade. George follows them at a sedate pace, hands stuffed into his pockets. He is _not_ sulking.

“Hey, George,” says Dream, stepping away from Sapnap and Bad, who are debating between Maccas and a Chinese restaurant. “Whatcha thinking about?”

George _does_ _not_ grumble when he says, “guess.”

A smile tugs at Dream’s mouth like reflex. He steps closer, slinging an arm over George’s shoulder, and ruffles the top of his head. George bats at him half-heartedly just to put up a show. In reality, he’s basking in Dream’s warmth like a seal sunning itself on the beach. Like a fish in the shallows, swimming through shafts of sunlight piercing the salty brine.

He needs to stop using aquatic-related similes.

“I’ll go the arcade with you sometime,” says Dream.

“Just the two of us?” George responds, his tone light. He’s not sure why he said that. Testing the waters, maybe. Seeing how deep Dream’s feelings run.

Okay, George is stopping now.

When Dream takes a beat too long to answer, George sneaks a glance at him, and almost stops breathing. Dream is gazing down at him, backlit by amber-hued street lamps, his hair shot through with gold and orange. In the darkness of night, the colour pours over him in stark slants, revealing all his soft edges and smoothing out the rough ones until he’s hazy and warm. He’s looking at George the way someone might throw their eyes to the horizon. Brimming with hope and longing. A roaring hearth-flame. But despite the intensity of it, there’s something hesitant behind his eyes, something uncertain, something carefully leashed. Something that sends George’s pulse into a rapid frenzy.

“If you want,” Dream murmurs. The heat of his breath fans across George’s skin, a mimicry of a caress. His arm is a gentle weight on George’s shoulders.

George swallows, and Dream’s eyes follow the movement.

Inexplicably, that action, that casual slide of his gaze — has George’s brain imploding.

His cells go on strike. His executive functions fizzle out of existence. In that blank area of complete mental nothingness, George scrambles for something to say. Something witty. Something that wouldn’t bely his mounting panic.

“Dream, do I smell like fish?” he blurts out.

WHAT THE FUCK.

The fire in Dream’s eyes is swiftly extinguished. “Huh?”

George wants to dive head-first into lava. It would be less painful than his current situation. But he grits his teeth and forges on, because he’s dug himself into this hole and he’s going to dig himself out, damn it.

“I said: do I smell like fish?” he repeats, every word causing him physical pain. 

“What? No?” says Dream, baffled. “You don’t smell like fish. Where’s this coming from?”

“I’m going to kill Bad,” mutters George.

“Guys!” calls Sapnap.

George startles. For a second there, he forgot that there were other people present. When he looks up, Sapnap and Bad are looking back at him. And Dream. Who still has his arm slung over George’s shoulder and his face leant in _too_ close — oh, and his lips are at forehead-kissing level. Nice.

George needs to find a pool of lava, like, yesterday.

“What’s up?” Dream says. In one easy motion, he takes his arm off George, puts a socially-acceptable distance between them, and sticks his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look the least bit ruffled.

“We’re gonna eat at Taste of Shanghai,” Bad announces cheerfully. The restaurant in question has its doors thrown wide open, the sounds of the dinner crowd filtering through, laced with faint strains of old-timey Chinese music. “They’re cheaper for people who have a membership, and you’re in luck, because I have one.”

“Cool, let’s go,” Dream says, walking up to Sapnap and Bad, casual as anything, like nothing happened. He pauses to glance over his shoulder. His gaze meets George’s; swift, searing, a fishhook caught between the ribs. “George, you coming?”

His eyes smoulder with the ashy remains of what burnt before. There’s potential there, but there’s also indecision — a fissure of doubt that runs so deep George can’t see its end. He wants to rectify that. He wants to hold Dream, wants to affirm his feelings, wants to kiss him like he’s drowning, but—

Not yet.

How can he, when Dream still doesn’t know who he is, _what_ he is? How can he enter a relationship when he’s hiding such a crucial part of himself?

A swell of words threatens to overtake him, but George swallows back their brackish taste, grits his teeth against them, and says: “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- shoutout to my beta reader alice, who gave me many conniptions while she read over this chapter.  
> \- there's a heat waves reference here, can anyone find it?  
> \- dont forget to leave a kudos and comment! <3 <3  
> \- come chat to me on tumblr @totaleclipsemc! i also have a twitter @totallyliterate


	3. The Miscommunication Trope Is A Blight On Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dream,” says George. “Do you like me?”

George doesn’t know how he survives an entire night of Dream keeping a polite distance. Doesn’t know how he keeps from crumbling to ash when Dream looks slightly to the left, purposefully avoiding eye contact with George, when he asks what George wants from the menu. Doesn’t know which vengeful sea deity he has to curse for Dream’s astounding ability to pretend that everything’s fine — to laugh and joke and chat with Sapnap and Bad — while simultaneously dodging every interaction with George.

Everyone picks up on it. They graciously refrain from mentioning it, but George catches Sapnap giving Dream pointed looks from the corner of his eye, and Bad nudges George one time, arching his brow in an unspoken: what’s wrong?

George just shakes his head. He means it to be a reassuring action, but Bad looks more unsettled than ever.

When they finish their meal (if everyone ate a little too quickly, no one brings it up), they each go their separate ways. Bad is taking a train home, Dream is getting picked up, and George and Sapnap are walking home together. There’s a brief moment of levity when they’re all waving Bad goodbye as he walks to the station, but when he disappears around the corner, the undercurrent of tension is back.

They’re all standing underneath the awning of a shuttered storefront. In front of them, people drift by, walking in pairs or groups or solitarily. The air is thick with the sounds of car engines and chatter, but somehow, the silences between Dream Team are louder.

“When’s your mum picking you up, Dream?” Sapnap says too quickly. 

Dream checks his phone. “Ten minutes or so.”

“Cool.” Sapnap stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Cool, cool.”

There is a pause. It stretches on for what feels like hours, though it’s probably just for a few seconds.

Dream has his thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans, idly scuffing his shoe against the ground, his eyes turned inward and vacant. There’s something dark and conflicted and awfully self-deprecating etched in the line of his brow, and George aches to reach out and smooth it away.

Dream must’ve felt George’s eyes on him. The next thing George knows, Dream is looking back. George doesn’t have time to pretend he wasn’t staring. They regard each other for a long moment, stretched candle-warmed and cloying, like dripping wax.

Dream breaks it first. George feels something in his chest go cold, even though the rest of him is thrumming like a live wire. 

“I gotta take this phone call,” Sapnap says suddenly. He holds up his phone. Its screen is blank.

George stares. “Your phone is—”

“YES, MUM?” Sapnap all but shouts into the receiver. “WHAT’S THAT? YOU NEED TO TALK ABOUT THINGS? OH, NOT IN FRONT OF MY FRIENDS? NO PROBLEM! I’LL JUST—” he starts walking away. “—GO WAYYY OVER THERE.”

“Where are you going?” George calls.

Sapnap, who has now crossed the street, pointedly turns his back. He keeps yelling into the receiver, even though George is ninety-nine percent sure there’s no one on the other end. Passers-by are giving him weird looks.

“His mum isn’t actually calling, is she?” George says.

Dream sighs. “No.”

“What’s he doing? We have to get home soon.” George looks at the moon again. Judging from its position in the sky, it’s probably… “Ugh, it’s already nine.”

Dream gives him a weird look. “How’d you do that?”

 _I’m naturally attuned to the moon because I’m a mer,_ George thinks about saying. _I can tell when it rises and sets, I can sense its tidal power, I can draw magic from it, and I can also judge the time from its position. It’s very convenient._

Instead, he just says: “Intuition.”

Dream clearly doesn’t believe him, but he lets the question drop. Sapnap continues his one-way conversation across the street, and George realises, belatedly, that Sapnap was trying to get Dream and George to talk to each other. That he faked a phone call just to get them alone.

George resolves to send Sapnap a fruit basket.

Before the silence can linger for too long, Dream speaks up.

“Um, George,” he begins. He ducks his head, looking so remorseful it breaks George’s heart a little. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“It’s alright,” says George, because it really was. It was more than alright, actually.

“No, it’s not,” protests Dream. “I assumed things. I overstepped.” He scrubs a hand down his face, frustrated. “We don’t have to talk about it. We don’t even — can we just pretend nothing happened?”

This is usually where Miscommunication rears its ugly head, but George Isn’t Like Other Girls, so he recognises the overused trope for what it is, and decides to Communicate Like There’s No Tomorrow. 

Is he ready to tell Dream he’s a mer? No.

Is he ready to start a relationship? Also no.

But what he _is_ ready for, what he can do right now: affirm Dream’s feelings for him, and then reciprocate.

“Dream,” says George. “Do you _like_ me?”

The emphasis on ‘like’ is impossible to miss. There’s no room for plausible deniability. George can see the instant Dream realises it, can see the way his eyes flick rapidly to and fro, looking for an escape.

It’s understandable. This sort of thing is difficult to say aloud on its own, let alone to the person of your affections. George hasn’t spoken the words “I have a crush on Dream” to anyone other than himself (he whispered it furtively to the bathroom mirror one time and then locked himself in his room, hyperventilating).

Maybe it’s cruel of him to force Dream to go first. Maybe George has had enough of flip-flopping between emotional highs and lows. Maybe he wants Dream to get a taste of his own medicine.

Why isn’t Dream speaking? Why is he staring down at the pavement, avoiding eye contact? Where is the smooth operator who slung an arm over George’s shoulders, who said he’d go to the arcade with him, whose eyes drunk in George’s every moment like a tall glass of water, slowly and decadently?

That simply won’t do.

Spurred forward by a sudden wave of courage, George lifts a hand to Dream’s jaw. Cups the shape of it so tenderly, feather-light and tentative, lingering on a smear of yellow lamplight caught high on his cheek. Dream’s breath audibly hitches.

“Look at me,” says George.

Dream raises his head. He looks up, and there’s something helpless, something desperate about the way he meets George’s gaze. Like he had no other choice. Like obeying George was second nature to him.

The truth is written into every line of him, but even so, George wants hear him say it.

“Do you like me?” George asks again.

“Yes,” Dream answers, his voice barely above a whisper. “I like you. I really, _really_ like you.”

“Oh,” breathes George. He can’t manage to say anything else. “Oh.”

He knows that it’s true. He knows, that on some level, Dream holds the same feelings for him that he does for Dream. He saw it in Dream’s gaze, in his demeanour at the bowling alley, heard the embers in his voice when they were traipsing to the restaurant. But there’d been a certain level of abstractness to it. An intangibility to fleeting glances, to suggestive words.

There’s none of that now.

Something like a sunrise blooms in his chest. Something like elation, relief, giddiness, and heady affection all at once. One massive rose-coloured cocktail.

George doesn’t have to hold onto these feelings anymore. He doesn’t have to keep gathering them in his hands, pressed against his ribcage, barely keeping them from spilling out. He doesn’t have to, because—

“Me too!” says George, almost stumbling over his words in his haste to speak them. He grabs one of Dream’s hands, squeezing them hard, because it’s either this for an outlet, or making out with Dream right then and there. “I like you too, Dream!”

Dream lights up like a cityscape at night-time. He lights up like a beacon through murky waters. He lights up like George is the only thing worth looking at in the whole goddamn world.

“Oh my God,” he says, unfettered and giddy, more of an exclamation than a response, and then: “Are you sure?”

George does a double-take. “What kind of question is _that?”_

“Sorry — I just, um.” Dream runs a hand through his hair, jittery with restless energy. He keeps biting his lip to keep from smiling too wide. It’s adorable. “I’m a bit confused, I guess? When I got all close, you looked really uncomfortable, and you asked me if you smell like fish—”

“I panicked!” screeches George.

Dream laughs. It’s a wonderful sound, all buttery and warm like sunlight. George feels drunk on it. Feels like he could live on this emotion alone. Feels like he could swim two laps around the world, and still be raring to go.

“You’re shaking,” Dream says softly.

George looks down. His fingers are trembling around the vice-grip he’s got on Dream’s hand. He tries to quell it, tries to take deep breathes, but the shaking doesn’t abate.

“Are you still panicking?” Dream asks.

“A little bit,” admits George. He lets go, and Dream immediately reaches for him again, wrapping his arms around George’s waist, pressing his cheek against the side of George’s head. His grip isn’t so firm as to cage George in, but allowing enough room for George to slip out if he wished. What a gentleman.

“Yeah,” says Dream, breath warm on the side of George’s neck. “Yeah, me too.”

George wishes he was dignified enough not to return this post-confession embrace in public, but alas, he hasn’t had an ounce of dignity ever since he crawled out of the ocean.

So, he lets himself melt into the embrace. He lets himself relax against Dream with a shuddering sigh. He lets himself ignore the stares from curious passers-by. He lets himself have this moment for a heartbeat, then two, and he pulls away.

Dream seems loath to release him. His hands linger on George, still resting feather-light on his waist. George can feel the heat of them down to his bones. He doesn’t want to let go either, but he has to. He has to get this across before it’s too late.

“There’s some stuff I’m not telling you,” he says. “There’s some stuff that I _can’t_ tell you. And also, I—” his throat closes on reflex, but forces himself to say it. “—I’m not ready for a relationship. Don’t get me wrong, I like you a lot, but I just — I can’t. Not yet.”

He closes his eyes, bracing for Dream’s response.

It wouldn’t be bad. He knows this, at least: Dream is an understanding person who wouldn’t force the issue if George didn’t want to. But he bared his heart to George, and it wouldn’t be unexpected if he gets a little irritated with George’s final verdict of: I like you, you like me, but we can’t date. Sorry lol.

But, in typical Dream fashion, he just responds with: “That’s totally fine, king.”

George’s eyes snap open. _“Pardon?”_

“A certain amount of secret-keeping is healthy for relationships,” Dream says in a tone like he’s repeating it from somewhere. “Unless, of course, the secret you’re keeping is about your second wife.”

“Dream, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Something my mum told me,” Dream says.

“Is your family okay—”

 _“The point is,”_ Dream interrupts loudly. “You’re entitled to keep some secrets from me. I don’t have to know everything about you, and you don’t have to know everything about me. If you don’t want a relationship yet, that’s fine.” His smile goes three kinds of gooey all at once. “I’ll wait for you.”

George doesn’t tear up. He _doesn’t._

He still has to explain why he _needs_ to tell Dream about his secret. That it’s linked to his hesitance to start a relationship. That it’s an integral part of him that he wants to share with Dream, but he’s just not there yet.

So he opens his mouth to speak, and—

“ARE YOU GUYS DONE YET?” Sapnap yells. His back is still turned to Dream and George.

“We’re done!” Dream calls, immediately pulling his hands off of George, though he still lingers at the fringe of George’s personal space. George wants to reel him back in like a fish.

Wait, no.

Sapnap turns around. He glances between Dream and George. He looks guarded, uncertain, but he also looks concerned.

“Is everything okay now?” he asks. “Are you guys — have you made up, or whatever?”

“We have,” George says.

“Great, great.” A relieved smile spreads across Sapnap’s face. He crosses the road to come back to them. “Can we go home now? I think my mum’s gonna call me for real. And Dream’s mum might be arriving soon.”

As if on cue, a car rolls up to the kerb. Dream’s phone lights up with a text.

He scans his screen. “Yep, my mum’s here.”

“Perfect timing!” Sapnap says. “I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

“See you on Monday,” Dream confirms. They exchange a brief hug.

Dream turns to George. “And I’ll… text you?”

“Sure,” says George.

There is another awkward pause. There have been a lot of awkward pauses today.

Painfully aware of Sapnap’s eyes on them, Dream extends his hand for a fist-bump. “See you Monday?”

George snorts. He lightly taps knuckles with Dream. “I’ll see you sooner than that.”

Before Dream can question it, his phone lights up with another text, and he’s hurrying away, waving a last goodbye to Sapnap and George. He scrambles into his mum’s car, and they’re off.

“So,” Sapnap speaks into the ensuing silence. “What happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are my lifeblood xoxo


	4. Aquaman and Minecraft Youtuber takes nap (together??)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s totally chill to sleep in the same bed as your best friend, right?_ George reasons, but only for show. He’s already made his decision.

George goes knocking on Dream’s door the next day.

Drista answers it, looking unimpressed. “What do you want?”

George nearly blurts out ‘ _Dream’,_ but he still has some brain cells remaining, thank you very much.

“I need to speak with your brother,” he says. When Drista still doesn’t respond, instead choosing to stare blankly, he stresses: “Right now.”

“It’s seven AM,” she deadpans. “He’s still asleep.”

“Then what about you?”

“I’m a good student,” says Drista without any inflection. “I’m studying for my assessment tasks.”

“You’re in year 6. You have none.”

Drista goes to shut the door, and George nearly screams.

“Okay okay okay I’m sorry,” he shrills, clutching the doorframe for dear life. “You’re a good student, you’re the best year 6 ever — can I come in now?”

Drista’s glassy-eyed glare is drilling holes into George’s soul. “What’s the magic word?”

“What? I don’t know!” says George. “Please? Pretty please? Minecraft? Poggers? Pogchamp? Dreamnotfound?”

Drista looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “What was that last one?”

“I don’t know either,” George confesses. “I kinda blacked out for a second.”

From within the house, an adult’s voice calls for Drista. She sticks her head back in.

“YES, MUM?”

A pause.

“IT’S GEORGE. DO I LET HIM IN?”

Another pause. Drista sighs heavily.

“You can come in,” she says.

George all but wrenches the door open. He barely stops to toe off his sneakers, leaving them in a messy heap at the shoe rack. He calls out a belated greeting to Dream’s mother. He skids around the corners with such speed, he almost falls flat on his face before righting himself on a doorknob, which conveniently happens to be Dream’s bedroom door.

He presses his ear against it. Nothing. He peeks underneath its gap, hoping for some sign that Dream is awake. It’s better to be cognizant for the ensuing conversation.

You may be wondering: why didn’t George wait for an appropriate time before he visited Dream? A time where Dream wouldn’t be sleeping?

The answer is this: because George has no patience.

And because of that, he makes the wise decision to open the bedroom door and walk right in.

The world beyond is cloaked in shadow. Dream’s curtains block sunlight like no one’s business. This might be a problem for the Ordinary Human, but George is a Mermaid, so his night-vision is unparalleled. Even in human form, George retains some characteristics of a mer. This includes, but is not limited to: having a magical mystical connection to the moon, night-vision, unblemished skin, personally knowing Ariel from The Little Mermaid™, and being a frog.

Bet you didn’t see the last one coming.

That’s right, ladies and theydies: George is cold-blooded, which means he can be scientifically classified as an amphibian when he’s on land. Hence: frog.

Evading the desk, the pile of clothes on the floor, and the cardboard Minecraft diamond sword lying to a side, George comes to a stop by Dream’s bed.

Dream has wrapped himself tightly in the blanket, head tucked down, a blue bass-clef curve. George is reminded of a crayfish, all hard shell and soft belly. Dream’s face is huddled against his hands. His breaths are heavy and even.

Something impossibly tender, something dusky-pink and soft and warm, unfurls inside of George. Little rosebuds peeking up through the gaps between his ribs to gather the sun. Cotyledons pushing their way out of his waterlogged chest.

He sits down on the carpet, folds his elbows on top of Dream’s mattress, and props his chin up on his hands. From here, he has a great view of Dream’s dreaming face. Dream’s dreamy dreaming face.

George is _hilarious._

Dream’s hair is a rumpled mess against the pillow, and George aches to run his hands through it.

Then he remembers: he can! So he reaches out, cards his fingers through the tangled strands, combing them into something neater.

They’re the exact colour of sand. It’s one of the first things that George noticed about Dream. It was hopelessly sad — maybe even pathetic: a merboy so homesick that he looked for pieces of the sea everywhere he went.

Then he became friends with Dream, then Sapnap, and others, and that salt-tinged longing in his heart grew into something else, something that almost anchored him to land instead of pulling him seaward.

Almost.

The moon’s power still tugs at him, lapping at the edges of his awareness like the tide, calling him to come back.

And that’s the crux of it all, isn’t it? Deep down, George will always reside in the ocean. He was born of foam-capped waves, with the water’s chill running through his veins. He learnt to swim before he could walk. He learnt to navigate the sea’s tumultuous moods, to live in its currents and eddies, and when his parents moved ashore, he learnt how to stand on two legs.

Dream has lived ashore all his life. Dream is a dry-lander down to his bones. Though he has hair the colour of the shoreline and swims like he was made for it, he’s still human. Absolutely, undoubtedly, utterly human.

He’ll never belong to the sea.

He’ll never belong to—

“George?” Dream croaks, his voice low and rumbly, sleep-heavy. “S’that you?”

He hasn’t opened his eyes yet. Somehow, he recognised George by touch alone, and that knowledge anchors itself someplace deep in George’s mind, burying itself into the silt and sand.

He removes his hand. “Yeah, it’s me.”  
With a great deal of rustling and grumbling, Dream turns onto his back and stretches out. His arms raise over his head, biceps flexing, and George stares unabashedly, thanking his lucky stars that Dream only wears a singlet to bed. Swimmer muscles, am I right?

Dream finishes stretching and starts to sit up. His movements are drowsy, like he’s moving through syrup instead of air, but once he’s upright and leant against the headboard, he seems a little clearer.

“Why’re you here?” Dream asks, squinting in George’s general direction. Oh, yeah. Humans and their lack of night-vision.

George gets up, strides to the curtains, and cracks them open an inch. A stripe of yellow light filters into the room. It should be enough for Dream to see him properly. “I said I’d see you soon, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think…” Dream drifts off, reaching for his phone. He taps the screen. “George, it’s _seven_.”

George laughs sheepishly. “Surprise?”

“I don’t get up ‘til ten on weekends, you know this,” gripes Dream, but he doesn’t look all that upset. The opposite, in fact. He regards George in the new light of the morning, and his face does this _thing_ — where it softens and sharpens at the same time, where he smiles helplessly, but his eyes grow darker, fiercer with intent.

He scoots over and pats the space next to him. George just stares.

“Come sit,” says Dream.

“What?” George’s voice cracks in three places.

“The bed is more comfortable than the floor,” Dream says innocently. “Don’t overthink it.”

George, who has never overthunk anything in his entire life, is offended.

“Who said I was overthinking?” he grumbles, already climbing onto the mattress. “You wouldn’t know overthinking if it hit you in the face. _Me?_ Overthinking? _”_

Dream looks like he’s about to laugh. George jabs a finger at him. “Shut up.”

“I haven’t said anything!”

“You were about to.”

George settles on top of the sheets. Dream looks vaguely disappointed that George doesn’t climb under them with him.

George tries to keep a respectable distance, but it’s impossible with the way the mattress dips beneath their combined weight, slanting their shoulders to press against each other. Dream emanates body heat like a furnace. George wants to burrow into it. Wants to press his face against the junction of Dream’s neck and shoulder and breathe in. His body is full of his wants, panging through him like the bittersweet notes of siren-song, tones in the key of yearning.

“So,” he says. “Remember how I said there were some things I couldn’t tell you?”

Dream nods. He hasn’t taken his eyes off George, but it’s not so _intense_ , not like last night; all that searing wildfire has been snuffed, and only its glowing coals remain. George is glad. He doesn’t want Dream’s affection for him to be a ruinous one. 

“I know you said it was alright,” continues George. “I know you said you’re fine with not knowing my secrets — and I get that, I don’t need to know every single detail about you either, but this is something I _need_ to tell you.” He casts his focus down to the threads on the bed, to the electric presence next to him, to the line of heat that he’s pressed against. A heat that George himself doesn’t have.

“I need to tell you,” he repeats. “And I will. I swear I will, just — not now.”

“That’s alright,” Dream says. He doesn’t sound dismayed. He doesn’t sound like he resents George for withholding this secret from him. When George sneaks a glance at him, Dream is looking back, his gaze solemn but understanding. There’s not a trace of disappointment in it. “As long as you eventually tell me, it’s alright.”

“Okay,” says George. His heart feels too big for his chest. “Okay.”

Dream reaches out, broadcasting his movements so George will have a chance to move away if he wants to. George doesn’t. Dream snakes his hands under George’s back, and pulls him into a tight embrace. With their bodies flush against each other, the hearth of Dream’s chest seeps its warmth into George’s own. If George closes his eyes, he can feel Dream’s heartbeat, can hear it, can imagine his own pulsing in tandem; his two-chambered heart, circulating cold blood, its rhythm the same push-and-pull of the ocean. He wonders if Dream can feel the chill of his skin. He wonders if Dream, and all their other friends, will realise on their own.

As soon as the thought arises, he violently shoves it down. He will tell them with his own words, in his own time, or he won’t at all.

Dream, still wrapped around him, opens his mouth in a jaw-cracking yawn.

“How late did you go to bed?” asks George, gently extricating himself from Dream. He’s planning on leaving, letting Dream get more sleep, but Dream doesn’t let him go too far. With a petulant sound, he latches to George’s arm.

“Did you even hear me?” says George.

“Yeah,” mumbles Dream. He burrows into George’s shoulder, and George makes a valiant effort _not_ to say “aww” out loud. “Stayed up too long. I was thinking about — stuff.”

“Am I stuff?” George asks jokingly, but Dream falls silent. The tips of his ears turn red. “Oh my God, I was stuff.”

“Can you forget I ever said that? Please?”

“Nah.” George turns his head, hiding his smile in Dream’s hair. “It’s stored in my brain for good. It’s got seven backups: Dream, sleep-deprived because of little ol’ George. That’s going on my wall of accolades.”

“Shut up,” Dream says, all softness. His head drops further. His eyelids are drooping, teetering just on the edge of wakefulness.

A lock of hair falls into his face, and George brushes it away with an unsteady hand. There’s a susurration of feeling in his chest like a flock of birds taking flight, like a rush of bubbles spiralling to the surface, and George has to fight the urge to speak in his first tongue, to whisper a tune of endearment in a language that he knows down to his bones.

“Go to sleep, Dream,” he says in English instead, and makes to leave. He gently pushes Dream’s head off his shoulder, climbs off the bed, and prods Dream into lying flat again, the other boy half-cognizant all the while.

“Where’re you going?” Dream mumbles.

George hums in consideration. “Home? I guess I can hang around your house until you wake up, but that’s a bit boring.”

Dream lifts a corner of the blanket, his face open and pleading. “Stay with me?”

“I—” George’s throat clams up. “I — I’m still wearing outdoor clothes.” It’s a token protest. The onslaught of possibilities is too strong for George to pass up: lying side-by-side with Dream, curled up under the same blanket as Dream, _cuddling_ with Dream—

“Doesn’t matter,” Dream says, his gaze sleepy and undisguised and hungry.

 _It’s totally chill to sleep in the same bed as your best friend, right?_ George reasons, but only for show. He’s already made his decision.

He moves the blanket aside and lays down next to Dream, turning on his side. The blanket isn’t as suffocatingly warm as he feared. It’s nice and light, and feels cool against his legs.

Dream shifts until he’s mirroring George’s position, facing him, forming a pair of mismatched parentheses. They’ve left the curtains cracked, the sunlight spilling in gently, a little lighthouse warning of no storms at all. The look on Dream’s face is achingly soft. A little half-smile dances on his lips, and his eyes are barely keeping open, but they shine like firelight in the shadows, all glowing and happy. He’s the loveliest sight that George has ever seen.

George scoots a little closer, enough to tuck himself underneath Dream’s chin. He worries he’s being too forward, which is silly, because Dream has been nothing but forward. He’s relieved when Dream loosely wraps an arm around him. He’s relieved that his actions are not only acceptable, but wanted.

He’s relieved that _this_ , at least, he doesn’t have to hide anymore.

With newfound boldness, George presses his fingers against the fabric of Dream’s top, moving to rest upon his heart.

“Go to sleep,” George says, barely above a whisper.

In lieu of a response, Dream moves his head, and presses what feels like a kiss to George’s hair.

* * *

The memory comes to George in fits and starts. Firstly: a grey overcast sky in July, rumbling with promises of thunder and lightning. Secondly: the winter wind lashing at his shirt, at his bare arms, where he’s clutching a blazer-bundled pile of books. He can smell rain coming, and he’s traversing the wide green grounds between the Maths department and the DaCA department, so he’d rather not get his books wet. Around him, students scurry to and fro, hurrying to their next classes in the scant five-minute gap there is between periods.

Thirdly: the cold shock of a waterdrop landing on George’s nose. He looks up, startled, and the first lashings of rain descend on him. He’s drenched in moments. A girl shrieks, and there is a flurry of movement and sounds of annoyance. Some people pull out umbrellas, some just run faster, blustering past with the force of hurricanes, desperately shielding their heads. George stands in the middle of it all, his head tipped up to the sky.

It’s a myth that any water will have a mer transforming back to their deepwater form. George can have showers and baths without effect, can stand in the rain without having the skin of his legs fusing into a tail. The essential component is the sea. Not the sea specifically — large bodies of water work as well — but how it represents the change. It’s something about descending into that weightless volume, clad in human skin and human lungs, and trusting to breathe. Trusting not to drown. Letting go of one form with the sweep of the waves, and trusting the tide to bring forth another.

George doesn’t know why he’s stopped. Doesn’t know why it feels imperative that he catch a few raindrops on his tongue. Doesn’t know why, upon tasting earth and rock and the slightest tinge of salt, he feels his eyes prickle, and more water goes trickling down his cheeks.

 _You’re pathetic_ , he thinks to himself, futilely wiping the tears on his face. They taste brackish. They taste of someplace he visited just last week, someplace safer and cooler and infinitely more familiar — God, it’s only been a week, how is he falling apart so soon?

In their dubious blazer-wrapped shield, George’s books are getting damp. He holds them close to his chest, trying in vain to protect them. He’s probably late for class. This is where useless sentiment gets him: ruined books, wet uniform, and a late note in his record—

“George!”

From the direction of the DaCA department, a figure is coming toward George. He squints through the haze of rainfall, trying to make out who it is, and when he does, his heart does a funny little kick in his chest.

Dream is running toward him at a full pelt. He’s got an umbrella held in one hand, a spot of blue in a world of grey — dark clouds, silvery streams of rain, waterlogged grass turning the same shade as the sky, reflective.

The wind howls, changes direction, and the umbrella inverts with a violent lurch. Dream makes a cut-off sound of alarm. With a bit of fumbling, he turns the umbrella to oppose the wind, and it pops back into shape. He resumes sprinting toward George, who is too surprised to do anything but stand there.

“George!” Dream says again, coming to a stop in front of him. “What are you doing?!”

He’s breathing hard. His face is almost comical; wide eyes, open mouth, a storm of annoyance gathering behind his furrowed eyebrows. His tie has been blown over his shoulder. His blazer is dark with splotches of water, his shirt sticking to his skin.

“I — I don’t know,” stutters out George. He hopes his tears have been dissolved in the rain. He hopes the hitch in his breath isn’t audible.

“You’re gonna catch a cold out here!” Dream snaps. He looks furious, but George knows him better than that: his concern always comes across as anger.

“I’m sorry,” replies George, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Dream makes a sound of frustration. “How can someone be so _stupid_ — standing in the middle of the oval in a rainstorm — whatever, c’mere.”

He holds out an arm. It’s clear what he wants George to do: tuck himself up to Dream’s side, letting the umbrella shield them both. It’s a reasonable idea. It’s perfectly within the bounds of friendship.

For some reason, George can’t move.

He’s staring. He can’t seem to stop. This is most dishevelled he’s ever seen Dream, and the sight stirs something in him — curiosity, maybe. Dream is always so put-together, whether he’s wearing the school uniform or casual clothes or swimming in the pool. George has no idea how someone makes a pair of swim trunks and goggles look stylish, but that’s Dream for you: making you expect the unexpected.

George finally forces himself into action. He steps forward, and Dream loops their arms together, adjusting the umbrella to cover them. It only keeps their torsos sheltered. The wind is strong, and pulls the rain to batter at their legs.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Dream says, tugging George to walk. “Why didn’t you bring an umbrella today? Haven’t you read the weather forecast? Wait, no, didn’t you look at the _sky?_ It was grey all morning!”

“I didn’t think I’d need one.”

Dream snorts. “Alright, Aquaman. Geez, you’re drenched — this is gonna take ages to dry off.”

He says something else, but George isn’t listening. Rather, he can’t seem to listen. Can’t seem to hear. Can’t do anything but walk, put one foot in front of the other, and try to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

He can feel every shiver that goes through Dream’s frame. Every inhale that he takes. Every movement, every shift. George is unaccustomed to touching Dream this much, and the contact is maddening. It makes a rush of energy course through him, and it feels strange, all fizzy and sugary like a carbonated drink. If someone shook him, George wonders which colours he’d explode into.

And then he wonders why the fuck he’s thinking about exploding.

 _“So,”_ says Dream, snapping George out of his thoughts. “No more re-enacting Singing in the Rain, okay?”   
In lieu of a proper answer, George just laughs. He’s gotta let out that energy _somehow,_ right?

Dream splutters indignantly. “George, this is serious—”

“I know, I know,” George says. “You’re telling me to stay out of the rain, but _you’re_ the one who ran into this—” he waves an arm, gesturing at the downpour around them. “—to rescue me, or something.”

Dream’s face has turned a funny shade of red. “Don’t turn this around on me!”

“I’m not!” George says, laughing again, and his foot slips.

The fall happens in slow-motion.

Gravity digs its cruel claws into George, yanks him off-balance, and sets his trajectory for the muddy ground.

He careens backward, dragging Dream along with him.

As George holds his breath, bracing for impact, he can practically see the stains on his white uniform shirt. He can practically see his mum’s face, red and apoplectic with rage as he sheepishly presents his sodden clothes. He can practically feel the crippling shame of having to apologise to Dream, who would wave it away with a smile because he was nice like that, and George would just have to _carry_ that guilt—

But—

Gravity didn’t account for Dream’s reflexes.

In a blur of blue, Dream is casting the umbrella aside, and before George can even blink, his fall is halted with a bone-jarring jolt.

There’s a pair of hands tucked behind his back, supporting him, the only thing stopping him from splattering into the mud. There’s a face above his, wide-eyed with alarm and concern. There’s an unbelievably clear view of Dream’s eyes. Perhaps the closest view George has ever gotten. He decides he likes them; green and bright and flecked with just the right amount of brown. He likes the concern in them more. He likes that Dream likes him enough to run through rain for him, to fight through wind for him, all to hold an umbrella over his head and pull him to dry shelter. And, now, saving him from a very undignified fall.

He grips Dream’s forearms (holy shit they’re _firm_ ) as the other boy slowly guides him to standing.

“My hero,” says George, intending for it to be light-hearted, but he just sounds breathless.

Dream doesn’t answer. His hands have come to rest at the small of George’s back. Like he’s too afraid to let go. Like he wants to be ready if George slips up again. 

George’s heart does that funny little kick again.

“Are you alright?” Dream asks. His eyes rove over George’s face, sweetly concerned, soft without being cloyingly tender. 

“I’m okay,” George breathes.

The rain continues to fall.

George wants to ask Dream why he hasn’t let go yet. Wants to ask if he’s aware that the umbrella is being blown away. Dream has surely noticed; he’s perceptive like that.

Except, when George opens his mouth to speak, the words that come to mind aren’t about impromptu embraces or umbrellas or anything along those lines at all.

 _Kiss me,_ George wants to say. _Kiss me underneath the rain, kiss me where it tastes like home, kiss me like you’re drowning and I’m your lifeline._

The urge is a sharp, greedy thing. Fervent enough for George to feel it surging through his chest, coursing through his body in a whirlpool of emotion.

It consumes him. He can’t speak around it. He breathes it out, bit by bit, and tries very hard not to tackle Dream there and then, because suddenly, the gates to a whole new world have been opened. A world with _Dream_ in it. A world where he can hold Dream and re-enact the pivotal kissing-in-the-rain scene from The Notebook and link arms without the excuse of sharing an umbrella. A world where, unlike the original Little Mermaid, he gets his happily-ever-after.

A world where—

(Out of the corner of his eye, George catches sight of a familiar blazer-wrapped heap on the ground.)

—his books are ruined?!

“NO!” screams George, practically flinging himself to shield his precious precious textbooks and notebooks and pencilcase, but the damage has been done. They are already half-submerged into the school’s turf. They are already gone, traversing from this world to a higher realm, just like how George wishes to do as well.

“This can’t be happening,” he says faintly, referring to more than just his books.

Dream lays a hand on his shoulder. “I’m afraid it is.”

And, from that day on, things just kept happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the purposes of this fic we'll pretend that george isn't colourblind, okay? okay. 
> 
> comments and kudos give me one (1) more year in my lifespan. make me immortal challenge


	5. Cold-blooded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What’s he so afraid of?

George wakes up to the sound of voices.

“Drista, _go away.”_

“Does mum know about this?”

“She doesn’t, and don’t you dare say anything.”

Sleep’s soft poison still hums in George, dulling his senses, but he dimly registers his name being said. He could close his eyes again. He could sleep another hour, but it won’t be a quality hour, just wandering in and out of a darkness that’s snug and soft and—

Wait a second.

George shifts experimentally, and feels a warm, solid weight breathing against his back.

… this isn’t his own bed.

And then he remembers.

And then he thinks: _hell yeah._

“George?” Dream says. “You awake?”

George makes a sound in vague affirmation. He’s still half-asleep, but his vision is starting to clear, and he sees the blue sheets of Dream’s bed, some facsimile of a sea, an ocean, and he could let it carry him away—

“Aww,” Drista coos, a mocking lilt to her voice, effectively bursting George’s thoughts.

“Go _away,”_ Dream snaps.

“Nah.”

George lifts his head, just a little, just enough to see the bedroom door opened a crack and Drista hovering beyond it. Her expression scares George. Her mouth is curled into a knowing grin, and there’s a nigh-sinister gleam in her eye.

“This must be a _dream_ come true for you,” she says, but George doesn’t know who she’s talking to.

“Was that a pun?” he asks.  
“Maybe.”

“That was terrible.”

 _“You’re_ terrible,” she shoots back, still wearing that creepy grin. George is pretty sure she’s insinuating something, but his mental facilities are still drowsy, and the best he can muster is: “Huh?”

“Ignore her,” Dream mutters, burying his head into the back of George’s neck, which causes Drista to burst into cackles.

“I’ve gotta go,” she says, “or else I might see something above my PG rating.”

“Close the door behind you—” Dream begins to say, but she’s already gone, leaving that stupid comment trailing in the air behind her. The sound of her footsteps fade down the hall. George could’ve sworn she nudged the door open a little wider.

“Ugh,” Dream says. George is inclined to agree.

“What time is it?” he asks, because the sunlight filtering into the room is that distinct gold shade of late-morning. The curtains are opened wider — did Drista do that? Was that how Dream woke up? Did she creep into the room, stab a beam of sunlight into Dream’s eyes, and then retreat? That sounds possible.

Dream fumbles around for a moment; probably looking for his phone. “It’s almost nine-thirty,” he answers.

George is a fucking genius.

“We should probably get up,” he says. As pleasant as being a little spoon is, he’s starting to feel restless. He’s also warm. Like, uncomfortably warm. Sometime during their nap, Dream has plastered himself all over George like an overgrown limpet. He’s got an arm snug around George’s waist, a leg thrown over his, and the entire front of his chest is tucked up against George’s back. In addition to the blanket, it’s getting a little too hot for George’s cold-blooded sensibilities.

“Yeah, probably,” Dream agrees.

Neither of them move.

“Are you usually this clingy?” George asks, mostly joking.

“Only for you,” Dream replies, also sounding like he’s mostly joking.

Still, neither of them move.

“You’re really cold,” says Dream, which, ironically, makes George’s chest blaze with panic. “Like, seriously. It’s like cuddling with a popsicle.”

George tries to go for an unaffected laugh, but his voice cracks halfway, and he ends up sounding pre-pubescent _. “Hahahahaha really?”_

“Really!” agrees Dream. “Even after sleeping—” he touches a hand — the other one, the one that’s not around George’s waist — to the back of George’s neck. Predictably, it’s cold. “—you’re still _freezing.”_

Now the panic in George’s chest is mingling with downright fear, because Dream’s hands are so close to his gills, and George has gotten better at shifting them away but he still slips up sometimes, _holy shit Dream better not feel around too much—_

“Do you have poor circulation?” Dream asks, removing his hand.

George could keel over with the force of his relief.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s, uh, a genetic thing.”

Nailed it.

Dream makes a sympathetic sound. “So you get cold often?”

“You could say I’m cold all the time.” George shifts restlessly, trying to get some fresh air on his skin. “Not right now, though.”

He might start sweating. It’s not even scientifically possible, but if he doesn’t get out from here, he _will_ defy the laws of biology and secrete his own saltwater.

(Saltwater Secrets has been referring to George’s inability to sweat this entire time.)

Dream finally pulls his arm back, and George takes the opportunity to roll right out of bed. He lands on his feet, puts his arms above his head, and stretches until he hears something pop, which makes his shirt ride up. The cool air is a relief against his overheated skin. Cuddling is good and all, but not if your big spoon has the body temperature of an oven.

“Sleep well?” George asks.

A corner of Dream’s mouth twitches. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?”

“Well, you were the one falling asleep on me, so.”

“Heh. I guess so.” With slow motions, Dream starts getting out of bed. He sits there on the edge for a bit, rubbing his eyes blearily, and George doesn’t know what else to do, so he joins Dream.

They spend a quiet, timid moment studying each other. The air feels strange. There’s an itchiness to it, a thrumming tension — an awareness of how they see each other, the knowledge that they’d just slept in the same bed, and the fact that they’re perfectly alone right now. It’s exacerbated by Dream being fully awake and alert. It’s laid bare, wholly realised in the clarity of sunlight. They’d confessed at night, amber-tinged with streetlights, and talked further in the private darkness of Dream’s room, but this is the first time they’ve looked at each other, in daylight, with their mutual feelings hanging over them.

It seems like they’re drawing near a great precipice. They’re not at the brink, not yet, but George can feel them approaching it. He wonders what will await them beneath; will it be open seas, or jagged rocks?

Dream is the first to glance away. He narrows a flustered little frown at the floor, and George is kind of glad to see he isn’t the only one feeling overwhelmed by _this_ — this prequel to a relationship or whatever — between them. 

George opens his mouth. “I think I’ll—"

“I’m gonna—”

Their sentences overlap in a cymbal-crash of awkwardness, and George backpedals frantically. “Sorry, you go first.”

“I — okay,” Dream says. “I’m gonna brush my teeth and stuff. And get dressed.” He pauses expectantly, staring at George.

George just blinks. “Okay?”

Dream stares harder. “I’m still in my pyjamas.”

“You sure are.”

“I can’t tell if you’re doing this on purpose or not.”

George raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

Dream stares for a moment longer, then breathes out a sigh. “You know what? Whatever. It’s fine.” Before George can ask him what the hell he’s talking about, Dream gets up, goes to his closet, and starts flicking through his t-shirts. Throughout all of this, his body language undergoes a radical transformation: his shoulders drop, his posture curls in on itself, and a boyish shyness settles over him. He sends an uncharacteristically embarrassed glance at George, who’s doing nothing but sitting there.

Oh. Maybe Dream’s uncomfortable with the staring part. George never really understood humankind’s obsession with body image, or their need to cover up, but he supposes it’s one of those cultural things. Like how mers rarely wore anything. Prior to moving onshore, the only thing George had ever worn was jewellery and vambraces and, on formal events, a cloak made of seashell tissue that was for ornamental purposes rather than a need to cover up. He struggles to understand the nuances of nudity through a human’s eyes — why is it only appropriate to take your shirt off at the beach? Why do the girls at school get demerits for having too-short skirts? What’s the purpose of policing the bodies of others? What message does it send? ‘Your body isn’t yours to control?’

George calls bullshit, so he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. Perhaps the internet will have better answers.

Meanwhile, Dream has changed out of his singlet and into a white t-shirt. He’s midway through taking off his pyjama pants and slipping into a pair of Nike shorts, and he keeps sending George these furtive glances, almost like he’s expecting George to say or do something, but George just gives him a funny look and goes back to the internet. He didn’t peg Dream for the self-conscious type. He’s a swimmer, for God’s sake.

Eventually, Dream does finish changing, though George thinks it could’ve gone faster if he wasn’t so _weird_ about it. He sets about tidying up his room, and George stands up to let Dream make the bed. Strangely, Dream won’t look him in the eye. Even more strangely, Dream’s entire face is red.

“Are you alright?” George asks.

Dream stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Am I _alright?”_ he says, his voice jumping an octave.

“Yeah. You’re all red.”

Dream splutters. “You’d be red too if you got changed in front of your… your…!”

“Your what?” 

“Your — your crush!”

What does _that_ have to do with anything?

“I’m… sorry?” George says, feeling hopelessly lost.

“No, don’t worry about it,” Dream reassures him, even though it seems like _he’s_ the one in dire need of reassuring. He keeps blinking. “I’m just—” he jerks a thumb at the door. “—bathroom. Yeah. You can go hang out with Drista or something.”

And then he’s running out like there’s a shark snapping at his heels. As he passes, George notices that even the tips of his ears are red.

Weird.

* * *

With Dream freshening himself up in the bathroom, George is awkwardly adrift in the living room, trying to decide if sitting at the dinner table (with Dream’s mum) or the couch (with Drista) would be better.

Finally, Dream’s mum takes pity on him, and waves him over with a smile. She’s marking some papers, and the underside of her hand is stained with red ink. George focuses on that to avoid looking her in the eye. If he meets her gaze, he’s afraid he’ll find some glimmer of disapproval or — something. Some sign of _knowing._ She knows. She definitely knows, doesn’t she?

“Is there anything I can get you?” she asks, a perfectly innocuous question, and somehow, that makes George more anxious.

“I’m alright, thanks,” he says, taking a seat. 

Drista coughs loudly. “Is there anyONE my mum can get for you?”

George wouldn’t describe himself as a violent person, but right now, he’s pretty sure he could smother Drista with a couch pillow and not feel remorse.

“Oh, sorry,” Drista continues, remorseless. “I meant anything. Haha. That was a typo.”

“This is a _verbal_ conversation,” George snaps.

There’s no dividing wall between the dining room and living room, so Drista is able to swivel around on the couch to make direct eye contact with George. Her gaze is wide and glassy, bug-like. George didn’t think the scrutiny of a grade-schooler could rattle him, but you learn new things every day.

The silence hangs heavy between them, suspended in air like a sheet of glass. In the background, Dream’s mum peacefully unleashes a chain of red fireworks on some poor student’s exam. George can’t tell if she’s ignoring them to get work done or if she genuinely does not care.

“So, George,” Drista says conversationally. “Why _did_ you come over today?”

“I’ve already told you,” George says, trying to feign nonchalance. He adjusts his seating position, slinging an arm over the back of the chair. No. That’s trying too hard. He lowers it. “I just came here to talk to Dream.”

Drista raises an eyebrow. “Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?”

 _“You’re_ the kid here!” George all but screams. That’s it. He’s going to strangle Drista in broad daylight, he really is—

“Whoa, what’s going on?”

Dream enters from stage-left. George turns to him, a plea for help hovering on his tongue, but when his eyes land on Dream, all murder-related thoughts fly from his mind.

Dream’s a soft figure in the morning sunlight, all watercolour lines and rumpled hair. He’s completely at ease, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and a smile hovering at his lips. His gaze drifts over the two other people in the room, before landing on George. His cheeks darken. Not enough to be noticeable unless you’re looking closely, but it’s there.

George just made Dream blush by doing nothing. Call him a merm fatale because he is _swimming_ in boys!

Well, just one boy.

…

This metaphor doesn’t work. 

“Dream!” Drista cries. “George is bullying me!”

“Liar!” George accuses, not caring that he’s yelling at an eleven-year-old in front of her mum, and Dream, and God. _“I’m_ the one getting bullied!”

“Guys, it is way too early for this,” says Dream.

“It’s literally nine!”

“Ten, actually,” Drista corrects with an unwarranted amount of smarminess. 

Dream raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, your point?”

Silence.

“I’m gonna make breakfast,” says Dream. “George, want anything?”

“No—”

“Yeah, he wants yo—”

George slaps a hand over Drista’s mouth. She screams into his palm, and then licks it, but George’s willpower is stronger than grade-school tricks. He’s worried, briefly, that Dream’s mum will get mad at him, but when he glances in her direction, she’s just smiling wistfully.

“Ah, youth,” is the only thing she says.

Drista bites George’s hand.

* * *

“I’m really sorry about this,” says Dream, pulling a pack of band-aids from a cabinet, “She’s not normally this violent.”

“She just hides it better around you,” George mutters in response. 

The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and the sounds of Drista getting an earful from her mum is filtering in. It’s music to George’s ears. He tries to focus on that, and not on sluggishly-bleeding bite wound on his palm. All things considered, Drista didn’t actually bite _that_ hard, but George yanked his hand away in surprise, tearing his skin in the process.

“What’s wrong with you?!” he shrieked.

Drista just smacked her lips.

“Salty,” she had the audacity to say.

And here they are now: George perched on a bathroom counter, swinging his legs, while Dream rifled through the medicine cabinet. He puts down the bandages and grabs a bottle of antiseptic.

“That’s not necessary,” says George. “It’s not like I’ll get an infection from your sister.”

“Better safe than sorry,” is Dream’s response. He opens a drawer and extracts a bag of cotton swabs. Finally done, he returns to George, beaming, and extends his hand palm-up. “Milord?”

“You’re stupid,” George informs him, but places his hand in Dream’s anyway.

Dream is always warm. It’s especially concentrated in his palms, and when he grips George’s hand so gently, wiping away the blood, his touch leaves tingly trails in its wake. The contact feels maddening. George isn’t sure whether he wants to pull away or melt into it, so he just sits there, unmoving, as Dream dabs in the antiseptic. It’s taking a strangely long time. The wound — if it can even be called that — is barely bleeding at this point, and George can’t feel a thing.

“Does it hurt?” Dream asks.

“No.”

“You sure?”

George huffs an exasperated sigh. “Dream, I’m sure you can think of better excuses to hold my hand.”

Dream flushes down to his collar. “I — I wasn’t—”

George shoots Dream a winsome grin through his lashes _,_ all teeth, and watches gleefully as Dream takes a sharp inhale, cutting his own sentence short. _“Sure_ you weren’t.”

For a moment, Dream sways toward him, and George felt that knee-jerk urge flight-or-fight response crackle over him like a lightning strike. The bathroom is a little cramped, and the fluorescent lights have turned Dream’s face sharper, harsher, carving out lines where there shouldn’t be, and George wonders if his thumping heartbeat is out of anticipation or fear, because he doesn’t want this, not yet—

Dream reaches past him to put the antiseptic back in the cabinet.

George is left frozen.

“Alright, now for the band-aid.” Dream takes George’s hand again, completely unaware, and this is okay, George is okay. He takes a deep, steadying breath and tries not to be obvious about it.

“Your hand is really cold,” Dream remarks, and suddenly George isn’t okay anymore.

“It’s the — circulation,” he says. “Yep. My circulation. Quite a chilly circulation, that.”

Thankfully, Dream doesn’t seem to notice George’s panic. He frowns, then looks up, and stares off into space for a good three seconds. George gives him a questioning glance.

There’s the beginnings of a smile unfurling across his face, sweet and only a little impish, and George doesn’t trust it at all.

“I have an idea,” Dream says. “Wait a sec.”

He runs from the room. He’s back in ten seconds flat, a black hoodie slung over his arm. As he holds it out to George, his mouth keeps twitching, like he’s trying not to break out into a grin. Weird.

“If you’re cold, you can wear this,” he offers.

George stares. “Is that — is it yours?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not _that_ cold,” says George, a little baffled. Dream looks like there’s hearts in his eyes, which is cute as hell, but also — what? _Why?_

“Aw, come on,” says Dream, all but dumping the hoodie in George’s lap. “Can you just wear it? For me?” Oh God, he’s making the puppy-dog eyes. Oh God oh fuck.

George nods. He doesn’t remember giving his head the permission to nod. What the hell. 

The emotional equivalent of a fireworks display sets off on Dream’s face as George pulls the hoodie over his head. It’s too big for him, and when he hops off the bathroom counter, the hem goes down to the tops of his thighs.

“It’s not exactly my size,” he says dryly, flopping around a hoodie paw to demonstrate. He expects Dream to roll his eyes and rib George for being too picky. What he doesn’t expect is Dream staring at him with unfiltered desire, like George has caught his attention on a fishing line. Maybe that merm fatale joke had a grain of truth to it after all.

But seriously, _why?_ Do all humans have a thing for other people wearing their clothes? Was this a cultural thing that George failed to pick up? Or was it specifically a Dream-thing?

“Looks nice, though,” Dream says. “I mean, like, comfortable.” He drags his gaze over George, the path of it like a flickering flame trail, and he finally wrenches his eyes away. “You won’t be cold in that, right?”

George feels like a live wire, shivery and drunk on Dream’s attention. The hoodie thing is a little strange, but if it makes Dream look at him like _that_ — well, strange things aren’t always bad.

“I won’t,” he says.

Dream nods and nods, letting his eyes flick over everything but George. There’s a distinct red tinge to his face now, and George is suddenly aware of how alone they are, with the bathroom door only slightly ajar, letting in the sounds of Drista _still_ being scolded, which means the other two occupants of this house are preoccupied—

“Hey, Dream,” says George. It comes out quieter than he meant it to.

“Yeah?” responds Dream, equally as hushed.

George feels like he should say something or do something, feels like he owes Dream at least this much. This not-relationship thing can’t be easy for him. But as he looks at Dream, at the undisguised affection in his eyes and the careful distance he’s keeping between them, and thinks back to Dream leaning in, and the reflexive, fearful thump of his heart—

George lets his words dissolve on his tongue.

“It’s nothing.”

* * *

What’s he so afraid of?

The question wedges itself into his head like a fishbone lodged in a throat. Even as George distracts himself with other things, like playing Smash Bros with Dream, pestering Drista behind her mother’s back, and even enduring an hour of math homework (Dream can’t do calculus for shit), he still can’t cough it out.

He’s still thinking about it when it’s time for him to return home. Land-home, of course. Not home-home. The sun has almost sunk beneath the horizon, red and orange like an open flame, when George’s mum calls him. Dream wheedles her over the phone to let George stay over, but she’s adamant that he returns for dinner. Dream hangs up with a visible droop to his posture. It’s kind of adorable.

“We’ll still see each other on Monday,” George tells him, and it’s followed by a surprised squawk when Dream throws his arms around him. “Dream, I’m going to fall over!”

“Oh?” There’s an audible grin in his voice. “I guess you could say you’re falling for m—”

George makes a loud gagging noise. Dream laughs so hard his grip loosens, and George ducks out, and they spend a good three minutes just play-chasing each other. Dream keeps grabbing at the hem of George’s hoodie — technically his own hoodie — to reel him in, and George sprints toward the kitchen, shrieking through laughter.

Just he bursts through the entryway, strong arms wrap around him from behind, bringing him to a stumbling halt. “Dream!”

Dream cackles and pulls him closer, effectively blocking any route of escape. “You’re too slow, George.”

“I’m not—”

Someone clears their throat loudly.

George looks up.

Dream’s mum looks back.

* * *

“So, uh.” George rocks on his heels, looking everywhere but Dream. “I’ll see you Monday?”

“See you Monday,” says Dream. His hands are shoved in his pockets. His posture is tenser than a taut wire. At his shoulder, his mum smiles at George, but the light in her eyes is shrewd.

“I’ll see you soon, George,” she says, and the emphasis she puts on _soon_ is ringing alarm bells. Yeah, she definitely knows. “Tell your parents I said hi.”

George forces a placid smile. “I will.”

Dream’s mum doesn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon, so George just awkwardly waves and then backs away until he’s out of their sightline.

He power-walks to the bus station, his head spinning all the while. Now that he’s alone with his thoughts, the question comes back at full-force.

_What are you so afraid of?_

George tips his gaze heavenward. The sun has almost dipped below the horizon. Though it turns the sky into a cotton-candy swirl of colour, George isn’t looking at that — rather, he’s searching for the moon.

There. It’s more of an impression that anything else, but George can see it peeking through a gauzy layer of cloud.

It’ll be full by the end of the week.

* * *

Mers are a deeply romantic people. George doesn’t know about other parts of the sea, but this is how it’s always been for his own shoal — mers courting each other with pretty trinkets like wave-smoothed stones and sea flowers, drifting together with tails entwined, a steady, constant presence in the other’s life.

It’s the proximity that really counts. Long-distance relationships are unheard of; George thinks it’s got something to do with the ocean’s ever-changing nature and how its inhabitants learn to ground themselves in their bonds with one another, but he’s not completely sure. It’s always been the unspoken obvious, a foregone conclusion: find a partner within your own shoal. Couples shouldn’t live apart. The sea isn’t always kind; who knows where its waves will carry you next if you’re not anchored to each other?

To love another is to stay by their side. To stick together through storm and sun. To be each other’s closest confidants, floating through the warm shallows with your tails and hands entwined.

George can’t be that for Dream.

Mers living inland have to take frequent trips back to the ocean. It’s more of a _physical_ need than a psychological one — to sink into the water’s embrace and feel whole again. George is only wearing a human skin, after all. He’s not a natural shape-shifter like some other kids at his school, who switch between forms as easily as breathing. His soul isn’t meant to remain on land. He can function on two legs, of course, but there’s always going to be some sense of wrongness. A faint twinge of incompleteness.

He used to wish that Dream was a mer — because that way, they could understand each other in a way that a human and a mer can’t. They could _belong_ with each other.

George is afraid because he knows he’ll return home someday, and Dream won’t be able to follow.

* * *

George collapses on his bed with a heavy _oomph._ He grabs his pillow and screams his frustrations into it, and when he’s done, his mind does feel a little clearer, though his fear hasn’t abated.

He needs to talk to someone about this. He can’t keep all this pent-up emotion inside of him.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket.

 **George** : _hey_

_**George** : do you have period 5 free next monday?_

_**George** : i gotta talk to you about something_

No response. He settles in to wait, wriggling around to get more comfortable on his bed, and it’s only then that he notices: he’s still got Dream’s hoodie on.

 **George:** _you left your hoodie on me_

Dream replies immediately.

 **Dream:** _u can keep it_

 **George:** _lol what_

 **George:** _permanently???_

Dream doesn’t even hesitate.

 **Dream** : _Yes._

Whoa, he’s serious. He’s using proper punctuation and everything!

 **George:** _it’s literally yours_

_**George:** i can’t just take it _

Dream’s reply is taking a while. George wonders if it’s because he’s typing out ‘you already took my heart you can take my hoodie too xoxo’ and ten heart emojis. When he sees Dream’s actual message, he’s a little disappointed.

 **Dream** : _dude it’s chill. You can take the hoodie it’s not like I’ll run out_

_**Dream** : *YOU’RE chill_

_**Dream** : see what I did there lol _

George doesn’t laugh. He just smiles down at his phone, hopelessly endeared by Dream’s stupid fucking joke because crushing on someone can ruin your sense of humour, apparently. One out of ten, George doesn’t recommend.

 **George:** _your hoodie is my property now_

_**George:** no take backs_

Dream really does send a heart emoji this time, though it’s a blue heart. George sends a green one back, and he feels the uncontrollable urge to giggle, which — what the fuck? He’s not some lovesick shoujo-manga protagonist! He’s an independent merman!

Before he can sink into that pit any further, a new notification pops up on his phone: _I do have period 5 free. Is it a serious matter? Are you alright?_

George’s spirits lift.

 **George:** _it’s serious to me. i need your opinion on something_

The reply comes through instantaneously: _Thank goodness! I was worried for a second. I’ll see you at Hub 1 in the library._

George takes a deep, relieved breath. He can’t talk to his parents about it, since they don’t know that George purposefully kept the truth from his friends. He definitely can’t talk to Dream or Sapnap. Bad seems alright, but they’ve only met each other once, and this isn’t a conversation meant for dry-landers.

Which only leaves…

 _thanks niki,_ George texts back. _ur the best_

 **Niki** : _No problem!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have good news and bad news 
> 
> good news: i've signed up for the dsmp big bang! i'll be writing a time-travel/fantasy-esque dnf work that is highly ambitious and also something i've been mulling over for a while! look forward to that! 
> 
> bad news: due to preparations for the big bang, updates will be slowing down. just like how this update was slowed down. rest assured though, this story will definitely be finished 
> 
> love u all <3 <3


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